


they say that things just cannot grow beneath the winter snow (or so I have been told)

by thinkatory



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Backstory, Doomed Relationship, F/M, Gen, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lyanna Stark walks mountains of fiery purpose in her sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they say that things just cannot grow beneath the winter snow (or so I have been told)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks to my betas, who are wonderful and coached this piece through all its stages! Title from Sara Bareilles's "Winter Song." I hope you enjoy this <3

Lyanna always has the same dream:

 

_she walks a mountain path that’s broad with peaks ahead; she realizes the mountain she climbs is not just red in color, but is aflame, as is the valley so far below; she looks again at the path ahead and the deep orange-red of cinders stretches as far as she can see; they burn beneath her feet as well, but she feels no pain._

 

_she knows she is where she is meant to be, though her mouth is full of ashes, the mountain burns and withers, and the world falls to singed tatters around her_

She jerks awake, and the start of a shriek escapes her mouth before Ben claps his hand over it. She pulls it away. "Why –"

 

"I had a dream," Ben says steadily.

 

Her heart is still racing, and she's pulling in short breaths. The oppressive heat of the flames is always so real, the certainty that pulls her steps forward so strong, that she never feels as though she truly escapes it.

 

But Ben's had a dream. She forces a breath from her lungs and sits forward, meeting his gaze.

 

"Tell me everything," she orders him.

 

* * *

 

Ben's the only one of the Stark children born in summer. He's three years younger than she is, and Lyanna has never failed to look after him, day, night, or twilight itself. ("Looking after him," of course, entails a proper education in swords, horses and other such important things. He’ll thank her in the end.)

 

When Ben speaks about his dreams, it's as though he's spinning tales, and for the longest time she thought he might be doing just that. She dreams of fire, he dreams of everything else, and, even when he explains it to her through words and wild gestures, it's as real to her as the mountain aflame.

 

_I saw a knight with the face of a heart-tree ride a dark lizard-lion and defeat man after man with his lance -- I saw you in the crowd with winter roses twisted in your plaits -- and we returned to Winterfell, Lya, and the halls were empty --_

He's lost in his own head. She brings him back with a hand to his face. "Ben," she says, gently. He turns his head to her, dazed, then she pinches his cheek. "To me, Benjen Stark. Listen well: there will _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell."

 

Ben smiles, wry and world-weary at the age of ten (but how many lifetimes has he lived in his dreams?). "A rhyme! You should write songs, sister."

 

Lyanna's smile blooms into a laugh, and she composes offhand, " _All you northmen, listen well; the Wall could crumble, night may fall; there is a Stark in Winterfell, fierce wolves to stop the Others' call_. How's that?"

 

"Brilliant," Ben declares. "Sing me to sleep, Lya?"

 

She swats his ear playfully. "Future knights don't need lullabies."

 

His face falls, and she nearly apologizes, but he speaks before she can get a word out. "You looked so sad. In my dream. I want to -- "

 

She doesn't want to know. So, she sings. She only sings for him, softly in the night, and he climbs under her bedding to join her there. She sings him to sleep and hopes her summer brother will dream of summer roses and riding swiftly through the woods.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna rides. It's the best feeling in the world, to ride. Every morning when there's nothing planned for the day she plaits her hair and rushes to the stable to prepare. Benjen appears soon enough, yawning and still bleary-eyed, and she helps him onto his horse before mounting her own.

 

"Lya!" Brandon's shout makes her stop the horse's cheerful pace abruptly, and, when she glances back, Ben is frozen to his spot in the stable, his horse obliviously nibbling at hay. "You shouldn't go without one of us."

 

"I _am_ going with one of you," Lyanna says without missing a beat, and nods to Ben.

 

"I'm ten years old!" Benjen protests.

 

"But you could defend my honor," Lyanna says. "Right?"

 

"No! Well -- I would try, of course, but _Lya_ \-- "

 

She glances furtively back at Brandon, who is wearing his disapproving future Lord of Winterfell expression, possibly in an effort not to smile. "See? I've a future knight of the Seven Kingdoms to look after me."

 

Brandon nods seriously, then turns to Benjen. "Have you bested her yet?" he asks.

 

Lyanna makes a point of sneaking a glance at Benjen's face; he flushes a charming shade of pink. "Nearly!" he sputters out, at long last.

 

"I'll make a swordsman of him yet," she promises Brandon. "Now can we ride?"

 

Brandon raises his eyebrows at her, and heads towards the stable. "Harwin! My horse!" he calls.

 

They ride. She can't imagine anything better. She wishes, in a flash of inspiration, of joy, that she could race through the woods every night, pursuing nothing but the sheer and undeniable idea of freedom. The sky would be open, no castles, no halls, no lessons or obligations or dresses to try on.

 

She doesn't realize what's happened until it has. She's free. She's running, her hair in the wind, her feet pounding the ground, and there's nothing but the reins and the girl on her back to keep her from --

 

She slows and whinnies and the acrid taste of fear is in the back of her throat, and the shock throws her back to herself.

 

Brandon is staring back at her. "Lyanna!" he shouts. "Is everything all right?"

 

Benjen's attention is raptly on her, as well. But she knows his expression. It's not concern so much as it is a flash of understanding. _He knows_.

 

"I'm fine!" Lyanna grips the reins, urges her horse forward at a quick gallop. "Just try to catch me!"

 

They don't. They can't. What pulls her steps forward, ever forward, will never stop, and no one stands a chance in keeping up. She might feel alone if it didn't feel so right.

 

* * *

 

Words rush out of Ben's mouth. "It just happens," he whispers. "I close my eyes as me and I open my eyes as something else."

 

Lyanna's mouth is dry, throat tight, at the only thought that comes to mind. "The old stories -- Old Nan. All of that -- " _True_.

 

"Promise you won't tell anyone," Ben says, insistent. "Never."

 

She takes his hand. "What are you afraid of?" she presses. "Northmen have had these -- these abilities before, and -- "

 

Ben shakes his head. "I want to be me. Nothing else. No, no dreams, no -- _this_."

 

"We are what we are, Ben." She kisses the top of his hand. "You're exactly the way the gods meant you to be. So there's nothing to be afraid of."

 

He still doubts her, but somehow, she knows. This is real. This is right. She kneels by the heart-tree that night and prays until she falls asleep, and dreams of wheeling in the sky like a hawk, free.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna loves all of her brothers. She loves Brandon with fierce admiration; she loves Benjen as his sworn protector and closest friend; but her love for Ned is as simple as trust in him, complete and total. Ned is one man in one hundred thousand, for his honor, loyalty, and compassion. She may be just a girl, not a lady yet, but she knows some things, and she knows she can place her faith in him. Best of all, he places his faith in her.

 

The raven comes telling them of Ned and Robert Baratheon's impending arrival, and Lyanna and Benjen spend the days until their party makes it to Winterfell dodging lessons and preparing their swordfighting skills (in order to show off properly to Ned) with duels in the godswood. Three nights after she’s accustomed herself to Benjen’s secondhand armor in steel and riding, at long last, Ned is home.

 

Lyanna can't help but smile when Ned rides up to them, a true and genuine smile, and he returns a half-smile and a nod. She grins until her father catches her eye, and she tries to be prim, for now.

 

Once the crowd has dispersed, and Ned has climbed off of his horse, she throws her arms around him. "Did you bring me anything?" she asks.

 

"I might have," Ned says, teasing, in his way.

 

"And the wild stag's returned! Lord of Storm's End, the things I've heard about your antics of late!" Brandon booms, walking past her, and that's when Lyanna notices him. Robert Baratheon has sent his horse off to the stable, and is simply standing there, looking right at her.

 

Perhaps she's meant to blush, or turn away. Perhaps she's meant to be shy, or cool, or demure. But she is what the gods meant her to be. She meets his gaze and doesn't break it, and he tears his eyes away from her when Brandon clasps him close and begins to speak fondly to him.

 

When her father broaches the topic of her betrothal to the wild stag himself in quiet conversation, while they are alone, it doesn't surprise her. She nods. She withdraws. She goes to the godswood and speaks to the heart-tree.

 

"Lady of Storm's End," she says, to taste the words. They aren't bitter on her tongue. She's not angry. It just sounds wrong. She is of the North. She hasn't just been raised with the stories, she is of the stories, she walks fiery mountains of purpose in her sleep and can slip in and out of her skin as if shrugging off a cloak.

 

She rests against the heart-tree. "Wedding cloaks look heavy," she tells the face in the tree.

 

Then she remembers Benjen's dream, and traces the heart-tree's face with her fingers. She smiles.

 

* * *

 

Two nights she practices, with armor and makeshift lance. She may not have the strength to unhorse a man, but there is some strategy involved, and if it requires cleverness by all the gods old and new she's more than willing to try. When she finishes tonight and makes to return to her room, Robert is there, looking out of a window, and down at her.

 

At first, she freezes. Then, she reconsiders, and goes to meet him.

 

Their exchanges have been largely in passing, betrothal aside; now that Brandon's betrothal to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun has been announced, Lyanna’s own betrothal is no longer a new story worthy of gossip. Both she and Robert have been left to their own whims, and Lyanna has something of an idea of Robert's whims.

 

This is the first time she's met him directly in some years, and he's now unquestionably a man – he stands taller than her, broad, with a beard, and near-legendary strength. But he doesn't seem a fierce warrior, a lord of substantial holding, when she sees him now. His eyes are soft, his demeanor cautious.

 

She speaks first. "Please don't tell anyone I was outside tonight."

 

He doesn't seem to have expected that. "Of course. Of course not." He nods to her. "My lady Lyanna, I -- "

 

"Thank you for your courtesies, Robert, but we'll have a lifetime together. You might as well accustom yourself to simply saying my name."

 

Robert stares at her. "Yes. Lyanna." He reaches out to her, and she doesn't react, so he pulls his hand back. "I... look forward to that, my lady. Our years together."

 

Lyanna wishes he would stop looking at her, so he might hear her, and truly see her, understand her. That seems too much to ask, but she could be expecting too much, too soon. "Yes," she agrees, and extends her hand to him on impulse. "My lord."

 

He takes her hand in his and solemnly kisses it. She softens despite herself, but she has still heard the rumors. There is still a bastard girl in the Vale who would otherwise be a young daughter of Storm's End.

 

"Would you stay with me, Lyanna?" he asks.

 

 _What does he intend?_ She clasps his hand and doesn't withdraw, but questions flood her mind, until at last she nods. He draws her closer, and markedly hesitates; then he kisses her, and her eyes fall shut as she holds onto him and lets it happen.

 

He pulls away abruptly. "Go, sleep, Lyanna," he says, roughly. "I'll see you in the morning."

 

Lyanna smiles, nothing more, nothing less, and drops into a curtsey. "In the morning, Robert." Then she turns and goes, a plain coldness clutching her heart instead of the warmth and love that she expected.

 

She twists her hair into plaits the next morning after breakfast and rides alone for as long as she suspects she can get away with it. Soon enough she’ll be without northern horses and have children instead. Instead of her simple plaits she’ll have a southron lady’s hair to get tangled in the wind.

 

It’s not worth thinking on.

 

* * *

 

They're expected at a tourney at Harrenhal. It's some days' journey, and Lyanna is loath to stay with the party the entire time. The second day, she makes off with Ned's sword and spends most of her time alone until Ned and Ben find her, with more than their share of chiding and concern about her disappearance.

 

"You can't go and vanish," Ned explains. "We were -- _Robert_ was very concerned, Lya -- "

 

"If I spent my days constantly worrying over Robert's concerns about me I'd do nothing at all," Lyanna says.

 

"He's going to be your husband," Ben points out.

 

"And my lord, don't forget," Lyanna adds, not without some sharpness.

 

"You couldn't ask for a nobler -- " Ned pauses. "A more impressive husband. He is a good man, I promise you -- "

 

"A brother to you in all but blood," Lyanna says, weary of the argument. "And he _will_ be your brother in some years' time. I understand, Ned, I'm not simple."

 

Ned nods, but says, patiently enough, "He'll do whatever is in his power to make you happy. That I can promise you." He stops. "Did you _need_ to take my sword?"

 

Lyanna draws the sword (the scrape of the blade against the sheath thrills her), and points it at Ned, a smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. "You can take it back if you like."

 

Ned looks at her in frank surprise, then laughs. "What do you think, Ben, can I disarm her?"

 

"I don't know, she seems to want that sword an awful lot," Benjen interjects. "And you've only my practice sword..."

 

Lyanna eyes Benjen, then tosses the sword at him; he just manages to grab the hilt, and nearly tips over from the momentum. "Let's see what you can do, Ser Benjen Stark." She grins, and so does her little Ben, and even Ned seems to glow.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't entirely remember what happened with the squires. She remembers seeing the boy on the ground, the others kicking him and hitting him, then recognizing Howland Reed lying there wounded, and it's all something of a fog from there. By the time the squires have fled, she's gripping Brandon’s tourney sword and her heart is racing like she's just woken from her dreams.

 

Howland Reed is looking up at her from the ground in faint surprise, or possibly horror. She decides to think the best of him, sheathe the tourney sword, and offer him her hand. "We haven't met," she says. "I'm Lyanna Stark, of Winterfell."

 

"Howland Reed of Greywater Watch," he mumbles out, as she pulls him up to his feet. "Thank you."

 

She dismisses it with a shake of her head. "This way."

 

Reed glances back. "But -- "

 

"You're my family's bannerman," Lyanna says, matter-of-factly. "I'm honor-bound to take care of you. _This way_."

 

Brandon is the first to look up when she brings Reed into the tent. "Good gods, Lya, what did you do to the boy? _Is that my sword_?"

 

"I didn't do a thing," Lyanna says primly, ignoring the last, and helps Reed sit. "Howland, this is my brother Brandon. Eddard -- Ned, of course -- and Benjen. He's just a pup. Don't mind him."

 

"I am not a pup," Benjen says indignantly.

 

"Everyone, this is Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch." Lyanna exhales and looks through her belongings to find supplies. "Brandon, I need your wine."

 

Brandon stops midway through pouring himself another cup. "What? Why?"

 

"Because we're not taking the heir of House Reed to the feast looking like this," Lyanna says importantly, and takes some of her linens to begin to rip strips for bandages.

 

Reed sits up with a start and cringes at his ribs. "But -- Lady Lyanna, I couldn't -- "

 

Lyanna silences him with a look, then goes on as she accepts the wine from Benjen and goes to clean Reed's wounds. "You're highborn! No matter what those squires think. Your family has proven its honor many times over the centuries, my father speaks very highly of yours, Howland, so you're _going_ to the feast, and do call me Lyanna -- "

 

"She's right," Brandon says, and she glances over at him just briefly to confirm that she actually heard that. "You're coming with us."

 

Reed looks down, and Lyanna says with complete confidence, "You won't regret it. There's nothing like a good meal after a fight."

 

There's a pause, then Brandon starts to snigger, and Ned coughs to hide a laugh, and they're all laughing at once. She grins at Howland, and he does his best to return it. They jape and jest through Lyanna's careful treatment (though she is no maester), and Howland's heart seems lighter for it.

 

* * *

 

It's a fine feast. There's no other word for it. Lyanna is distracted enough by looking for the squires who went after Howland, and their masters, to not be overly severe about excesses like this taking place as summer wanes. Reed’s dry humor charms them all, and she can’t imagine a better night.

 

There are singers, and Lyanna hums lightly along with some of the songs, exchanging a smile with Ben when he looks knowingly over at her. No one is far enough in their cups to clamor for the drinking songs, so songs of sweet courtship, epic adventure, and lost lovers fill the feast hall.

 

Then the prince himself rises from beside the king, and the hall goes quiet.

 

Lyanna has never in her life laid eyes on Rhaegar Targaryen. She knows the same things about the prince that anyone knows. He reads, ravenously taking in book after book. He sings and plays as so to make bards blush at their own playing. He loves his wife, Elia Martell, and their son and daughter. But those who speak of Rhaegar Targaryen have never managed to explain how it feels to look upon him. Her heart feels heavy on seeing his face, his half-smile, and she finds herself searching his face for something, something she doesn't even know yet, and a melancholy strikes her as he begins to speak.

 

"There is a song from Old Valyria," he says. "It tells of a man who loves a woman enough to give his life so she might live a long and full life, far from danger."

 

His fingers begin to pluck the strings, and he starts to sing, in High Valyrian. She doesn't understand a word of it, but there's something about the way that he touches upon the words, how he pulls those listening forward by the heartstrings with each note of the melody; she understands.

 

 _He loves her_ , she finds herself thinking, and her heart is full. She doesn't notice she's weeping until the tears are streaking hot down her face, and she chokes it down. Even Brandon is noticeably quiet, listening; Ned is not quite looking at her, in concern; and, next to her, Ben is laughing.

 

Before she even thinks of wiping her face, she dumps her wine over Ben's head.

 

 _That's what love is_ , she thinks. _Not just caring, or kissing. Not cloaks or weddings. He would do anything just to have her live._

 

* * *

 

Their heads are all heavy from the wine, but delightfully so, as they sit in Brandon’s tent. "We can get you armor," Ben says, enthusiastic, encouraging, to Howland. "You could challenge them! Sort it all out that way, honorably."

 

"It's not a terrible idea," Brandon has to admit.

 

Lyanna can’t stop looking at House Reed’s sigil on Howland’s chest, the lizard-lion with jaws open. She stands.

 

"Get your armor, Ben." She can feel his eyes on her, and she looks directly back at him, pointed. "This is going to be put right."

 

Howland looks up at her, plainly confused. "My lady Lyanna -- "

 

"Lyanna, don't," Ned cuts in, tensely.

 

Of course Ned knows. And he'll understand. Lyanna smiles. "Are you going to help me, Ned?"

 

Ned exhales. "You should let me -- "

 

"I will do this with or without you. All of you." She sweeps her gaze across the young men. "But I’ll need your help."

 

Finally, Brandon nods. "This is your battle, dear sister. And we will be there every step of the way."

 

"By all the gods, you’ll need it," Benjen mutters, and though Ned gives him a nudge to quiet him, she grins at the pup, her nerves humming like a struck blade. _Finally_. This is right.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna's reputation as wolf-blooded does her some good, as it's assumed she chose to ride away to solitude instead of challenging knights from House Haigh, House Blount and House Frey on behalf of the honor of her father's bannerman.

 

They call him the Knight of the Laughing Tree, for the heart-tree’s face Lyanna painted on the shield herself. What she finds incredible is the amount of sheer indignance that a man, as it were, beholden to honor, can inspire. Her brothers and Howland are missing from the crowd, faces masked as they serve as her squires and take care of her horse, and speculation rides rampant that any one of them is behind the battered helm. The pursuit and mystery drives some to distraction; even Robert is beside himself in attempts to unmask the good Ser Heart-Tree, and the king himself is rumored to have ordered his son to find the man.

 

None of them search for the good knight in plain sight, her bruises and aches hidden behind a fine blue dress in the northern style.

 

The squires are dealt with, in short order, once their masters are trounced. There's only one thing left to sort.

 

The night is black, and she wakes Ben to help her into her armor. She climbs upon her horse, the shield clutched to her side, and Ben’s practice sword, sheathed, and rides away from the camp, towards the godswood nearest Harrenhal. The armor feels as comfortable as any of her dresses, perhaps more so, so she rides as she always does. All the men spent the night in their cups; she makes it to the godswood without a single interruption.

 

There, by the heart-tree, she sets the shield. She smiles behind her helm.

 

Then there's a voice. "At last I’ve found you, ser."

 

Her heart leaps into her throat. She turns to face Prince Rhaegar whose stare is intently set on her. She gives a short bow, and deepens her voice again. "My prince."

 

"A northern knight who won’t show his face," Rhaegar says. He glances down at her sword, and she realizes her folly, but whose sword would she bear otherwise? "My father thinks you’re Brandon Stark, playing at secret identities so as not to trouble Riverrun and Harrenhal. But Brandon Stark cares more for glory than bannermen."

 

Lyanna pauses only briefly. "I don’t believe that’s true, my prince."

 

"Reed, then." He approaches her, and she takes a step backward, so grateful for the helm to hide her face, as she doesn’t trust herself not to cry from the thrilling feeling in her chest so like fear.

 

"Show yourself, Ser Laughing Tree," Rhaegar says, coolly, and draws his sword. "Or I will bring your head to my father."

 

"No, my prince," she answers. There’s nothing she can do. She can’t outrun him in armor, she can’t reveal herself, and she can’t allow herself to be bested and discovered. "You will not."

 

"Won’t I?" His voice is brittle, his gaze stonily set, and she doesn’t doubt him at all.

 

Lyanna shakes her head briefly, and lifts her visor. "You are not your father, my prince."

 

The prince stops, then, and she hopes she’s dissuaded him. He brandishes his sword, but his eyes say something different, now. "Your helm, ser."

 

She knows she mustn’t, but that doesn’t seem to matter, in the moment. She removes the helm, reveals her face, and the tight plaits pinned to her head. "My prince," she repeats, in her own voice, and smiles in her most sharp and daring way.

 

Rhaegar is speechless. Then he gestures with his sword to her own. "Your sword, my lady. Draw it."

 

There’s a noise raging in her head like the maester's ravens all squawking at once or a smithy at work between her ears, and she draws the practice sword from its sheath. An expression crosses his face for an instant that might almost be a smile. Then he comes at her, and she defends herself from each swing and forces him back a step, out of breath and half in terror.

 

Rhaegar drops into a bow. "Ser," he says, while his head is down, and she wishes she could see his face because that might explain even some of what is going on. Then he straightens, and sheathes his sword. "I'll need the shield, my lady. My father is... quite concerned."

 

"Of -- of course." He steps past her, and Lyanna has never felt more alive than in that moment, her hands still stinging from the swordfight, her mind drenched in fear and fascination and pride all at once. She sheathes her own sword, and finds her hands are shaking.

 

Rhaegar passes by her, and after she can no longer hear his footfalls, it's as though he was never there.

 

(But something is different. This must be how it would feel to be steel in the hands of an armorer -- hot, bright, ringing, pure, true, and forever changed.)

 

* * *

 

Lyanna attends the rest of the tourney in a daze. She's felt more awake in dreams than she has in life now, and even Howland notices a difference, though she doesn't directly answer his concerns. Naturally, she gives Robert a favor, but he is still unhorsed the day before the champion is to be named, and mightily unhappy about losing that as well as the melee. Brandon makes it into the last day of the tourney's joust, so she sits with her father and Ben; Ned sits behind her, quiet and intently watching, and Robert sits in the stands behind them, making the best of the day by drinking and exchanging japes and bawdy jokes with Lord Jon Arryn and Eon Hunter.

 

She grins wildly as Brandon rides past her, he just laughs and waves to his supporters, and she recognizes his expression, the freedom, the relish he takes in the fight. (Somewhere deep inside of herself, despite all of the aches and wounds she suffered, she wishes she could fight again, for real, for once, not for glory but for her family's honor.) She applauds and stands until Ned pulls on the sleeve of her dress, and she drops back to the bench with a gale of laughter.

 

The prince rides out after her brother; his armor is magnificent, rubies shining on his chest in the sunlight. It takes the breath from her lungs, but she holds onto the bench in order to keep herself grounded.

 

(He doesn't actually look her way. She imagines this; she imagines he remembers the night that seems so long ago now, that he believes she is what the gods made her to be: a lady in armor, a betrothed behind a shield bearing the face she trusts most.)

 

The cry goes out, and Brandon and the prince ride at each other -- each break lances on the other, but neither are unhorsed, and they are both impatient and eager to get back to the joust. They ride again, and Lyanna's hands fly to her face as Brandon falls from his horse, the wood of Rhaegar's lance sticking from the gap in his armor in splinters.

 

"And the victor -- Prince Rhaegar Targaryen!" The crowd roars in his favor, and he rides on, but she's looking down at a bloodied Brandon as he's carried away to the maester. She stands, and Ned takes her hand before she can slip away.

 

"He'll be fine. Robert suffered much worse yesterday," he assures her, and she sits, glowering back at her older brother until the next bout is due to begin.

 

The prince cannot be caught, as has been the tale at tourneys before, according to Ned. He unseats Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself, Lord Royce, and Ser Barristan Selmy that day as well, and, with victories in the melee and joust in hand, the tourney is his.

 

They hand him the crown of winter roses to give to his Queen of Love and Beauty, and Lyanna smiles; they will complement Princess Elia well, she thinks, and add beauty and solemnity to her already regal exterior.

 

She watches Rhaegar ride towards his wife, but he urges the horse past her with a flick of the reins, and every voice is still as the prince rides up to Lyanna. She stares, aghast, her face aflame, as his eyes meet hers again. Then he takes the crown of blue roses and lays it in her lap.

 

There is something in his eyes when she looks up from the flower-crown to say something, do something, and the expression he wears stops her. It's something intent, something real, something that makes every nerve in her body sing as sweetly as the prince himself.

 

Then, he rides away, and she places the crown of winter roses on her head with steel deliberation, her face a dare for anyone to question what's just happened.

 

No one does, then.

 

* * *

 

The tourney is over, and there's only a feast left before they all return to their lives to deal with what's happened. But Lyanna's family seems more than eager to sort it now. She rushes towards the Stark tent after Ned, Robert, and the others, though they ignore her. Fury strikes her and she stops, plants her feet firmly in the ground, and starts to shout. "Ned! Don't you dare walk away from me! And I refuse to be treated this way, Robert, I'm not a child -- "

 

"Tell your fool of a sister that she should wait in my tent until we've sorted out how to deal with the Mad Prince," Robert says to Ned, his tone biting. "I'll speak to her alone about this." He strides into the tent, and Ned stands still, looking sideways at Lyanna as she holds back tears of frustration.

 

"He didn't mean that," Ned says, softly enough so only she can hear, as though that matters.

 

"Of course he did," Lyanna retorts; a sob wracks her, and she rushes into her brother's arms for an embrace without a moment's hesitation. She pulls herself away and walks with determined grace to her lord's tent, the crown still upon her head.

 

She paces the tent as she waits; she grows furious and thinks of spitting venomous words in Robert's face; she grows fearful and thinks of explaining it all to Robert. But none of these are options. What happens is all in the hands of her father, her brothers, and the lord she's meant to marry, just as Prince Rhaegar held the winter roses and chose to hand them to her.

 

Lyanna stops pacing.

 

Why did he choose her? Why would a man pass by his own wife and pick a girl meant for another? Why would he choose _her_ , of all the women at the tourney? Ashara Dayne, the lady-in-waiting with her dark Dornish beauty, sat beside Princess Elia; why not her? _Why me?_

 

There's only one answer that feels true; her heart falls. That night in the godswood, by the heart-tree, he let her go. He bowed to her, despite her insolence. Did he mean to compliment or chastise her? Does he truly find her beautiful, or does he mean to force her to reveal her true nature, her brush with knighthood, to Robert and her family?

 

Her head swirls, overfull with thoughts, and a hand on her shoulder catches her off-guard. She turns to face Robert, who looks down at her.

 

"I wanted you to spend the night here, with me." She's so used to his gentle touch, his cautious words, that his rough and pointed way now startles her. "Your father refused. Asked me how it would look. I say damn how it looks, I won't have you taken by that son of a whore Rhaegar -- "

 

Lyanna's mouth drops open, she pushes at him, and takes a step back. "Robert! He's your prince!"

 

Robert is obviously stung by the rebuke. "He's as much a prince as that father of his is King," he hisses. "Why are you so fond of the man?"

 

"I'm not!"

 

"Then why are you still wearing his crown?" he demands.

 

She huffs. "Because he's the heir to the Iron Throne, and I'm not mad enough to speak against him!"

 

Robert grabs her wrist, and holds onto it as she tries to pull away. "There's no need to get emotional."

 

He's riled, and there's nothing Lyanna can do to end this mood of his. All she can do is salvage the night. "If you'd be so kind as to let me go," she says icily.

 

"Woman, I swear you'll be the end of me," he curses, and releases her wrist. She pulls away from him, her eyes averted, and he touches her, though she flinches. "I'll not have you sulking, there's a feast to enjoy. Wine. Dancing. You'll dance with me tonight."

 

She lifts her eyes to his face, and gives him a short nod. "Best I don't dance with Ned again, he'll take any excuse to keep from asking a lady to join him."

 

Robert laughs, one of his usual guffaws shared with his friends, and it makes her smile to bring that out in him. "Sharpest lady in the North, my Lyanna."

 

"In all the Seven Kingdoms, Robert, and you'd best remember it." Lyanna touches his face for a moment, and she can see the determined restraint in the way he looks back at her. He could kiss her, seduce her as he has all those other women, but he respects her. For that, she would nearly allow it. _Nearly_. "I'll see you at the feast, my lord?"

 

He touches her face, her hair, and she knows he's considering lifting the crown from her head. But he makes no move to take it, draws her into a fierce kiss instead, and leaves her breathless when he withdraws. Her hand is in his; he presses a kiss to it, then lets her go.

 

She eyes him, fondly, and leaves before he can change his mind about the night.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna wears the crown of winter roses that night at the feast, though her father warns her against it; wearing it is a rebuke against the princess, but taking it off is a rebuke against the prince, and the fault is not hers. She only accepted the honor from a man who ought to have known better than to bestow it upon her.

 

As it stands, she spends the night free of the prince's attentions, and it's as though he's forgotten her. She reminds herself that this is a good thing, that his attentions drew her ever deeper into scandal and trouble. She dances with Robert and thinks of their wedding, their marriage, and Storm's End.

 

As Lyanna approaches her brothers, Brandon is whispering to Ned, "Go on, ask her," but Ned just shakes his head.

 

"What? Who should he ask?" She uses the same undertone.

 

"Oh, Ashara Dayne. The shining Star of the Morning herself." Brandon grins as Ned glances at his feet. "I thought Ned might think to ask for a dance. Or more."

 

" _Brandon_ ," Ned whispers, less surprised than offended. "I would never --"

 

"No, the noble Eddard Stark would never," Brandon agrees. "But how does he expect to find a woman if he avoids them entirely? She's that way, Ned. The radiant Dornish woman, for once, alone, with her damnable brother not standing in protection. Do you see, or should I walk you over there myself?"

 

Lyanna is in giggles despite herself. "I think you should speak to her if you're so keen on her, Brandon," she whispers.

 

"But Catelyn," Ned insists without missing a beat.

 

"'But Catelyn,'" Brandon imitates him. "You've no Catelyn! One of us ought to dance with a beautiful woman tonight. I'll speak to her if you won't." He leaves them.

 

"Brandon!" Ned hisses, but their brother doesn't turn, and in fact walks faster to Lady Ashara. Ned looks to Lyanna, then. "Go," he says, with something resembling hapless despair. "I'll dance with you again before the night ends."

 

"Be brave, Ned." She grins. "Your duty, tonight, is to have fun." She kisses his cheek. "Don't step on her feet."

 

Ned sighs. "Lya -- " he starts.

 

Lyanna hurries away before he can think to convince her to stay. She makes it past a few lords and ladies on her way to Benjen, who is talking animatedly to another boy his age, but stops abruptly when she hears someone call, "Lady Lyanna!"

 

She doesn’t recognize the voice, which makes her worry; when she looks back and sees the Dornishman Ser Arthur Dayne there, she worries even more. But she approaches him. "Ser," she greets him, and dips into a curtsey.

 

He extends his hand. "It would be my honor if you would grace me with a dance, my lady."

 

Her first thought is _Robert’s going to hate this_ , but she’s starting to doubt this is a trap. She smiles, says "Of course, ser," and takes his hand.

 

The musicians begin to play a melancholy song, and Lyanna is struck as if by lightning when she hears the melody plucked out on the harp. It’s the song the prince sang that made her weep that night, before everything changed, with him and everyone else.

 

Dayne stays a polite distance as they dance, Lyanna still stunned by what could not be a coincidence, and the good knight undoubtedly knowing why. "I have a message for you, my lady," he confides.

 

Of course he does. "Then pass it along, Ser Arthur."

 

"After our dance, Lady Stark." He draws closer to her, his hand on her waist, and she can imagine Robert’s face. "I won’t trouble you for long."

 

"I expect you’re meant to bring me trouble, no matter how long we dance," Lyanna says, without malice to it.

 

"Not trouble," Dayne says, and easily meets her gaze without any trepidation. "Compliments."

 

She tenses, like a wolf ready to spring on its prey. "I believe I’ve had enough compliments for the day," she says.

 

"If you mean to reject our friend’s attentions, then I will pass that along." She’s still not accustomed to the Dornish drawl that makes the speaker sound informal and casual to northern ears, so it’s difficult to tell if he means to make light of the situation. "If you wish to continue your acquaintance, you need only let me know."

 

Her temper flares. "Now? I’ve only this time to decide?" she hisses.

 

"By the end of the feast, my lady." Dayne barely seems to notice her ill temper. "Unless you mean to come along the Kingsroad, this will be your last chance."

 

He means to have her tonight. It’s her last chance to willingly meet the prince halfway and sacrifice her honor. Does she have a choice? Does she want this? Her mind races, and she wishes she could flee into the mind of a hawk, a horse, anything, to escape this false decision. "If your friend commands, I suppose I must," she says, more than a little sarcastically.

 

That stops the knight. "Lady Lyanna," he says, quietly, intently looking her in the face. "This is not at all what you think –"

 

"It is exactly as I think, Ser Arthur," she snaps off in a whisper. "Or wouldn’t the princess have been honored today?"

 

Dayne releases her, and only then does she notice the music has stopped. "I will tell my friend your decision," he says, and bows.

 

Lyanna’s head feels light as he rises, and she speaks without thinking. "I haven’t made a decision, ser." She goes on despite the way his eyebrows lift. "What would your friend have me do?"

 

"Meet him before twilight. He said you’ll know where." He nods to her. "I’ll tell him to expect you, my lady?"

 

She gives him a short nod in return, and leaves the knight in a rush before she can do any further damage.

 

* * *

 

Lyanna couldn’t sleep this night even if she wanted to.

 

What was she thinking, then, faced with Arthur Dayne’s message? She can’t possibly go to the godswood tonight. She can’t risk being seen, she can’t risk being seduced, but it feels as though her decision’s already been made. She isn’t drawn there because he’s the prince – though what would become of her if she refused him, she has to wonder – but by something else far more tempting. There’s a mystery to it all, what Rhaegar truly wants from her, and she feels she has to solve it, or spend the rest of her life at Winterfell, and then Storm’s End, wondering.

 

She huffs and paces, then puts her face in her hands and sits to make herself as small and unimportant as possible. It doesn’t feel as though it’s working.

 

Ben half-wakes, then, and startles her nearly to a shriek. "Lya?" he murmurs.

 

"Go to sleep, Ben." She’s too lost in her own thoughts to explain or confess to him. She couldn’t begin to explain it if she tried.

 

There’s a moment when she’s so frustrated she could cry, because she ought to know better, but her heart is full of songs and stories. She goes, as quickly and silently as she can. She wishes she could escape into the horse’s mind and forget it all, but it’s too tangible even though he’s only looming over her thoughts.

 

By the time she reaches the godswood, she’s worked up into a proper fervor, and climbs off of her horse to meet the prince face to face. There he stands, by the heart-tree, serenely watching her approach, and it’s immensely satisfying to see the surprise in his face when she shoves him.

 

"Why would you do this?" she demands. "Why would you –"

 

"Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar starts, his expression hardening. "You’ve misunderstood –"

 

"I’m to be Robert Baratheon’s wife! Do you think I don’t know what men mean when they ask you to meet them in the night?"

 

Rhaegar shakes his head impatiently. "You aren’t meant for Robert Baratheon," he dismisses.

 

"Am I meant to be a second wife for a future king, or the mother to his bastard?" Lyanna retorts. "What exactly am I meant to be, my prince?"

 

He takes her hands, and she attempts to yank them back violently, but he holds fast. "Lyanna! _Lyanna_. Look at me."

 

"As my prince commands," she says icily.

 

Once he seems to find her attending close enough to his madness, he drops to a knee, her hands clasped gently in his. "There is a legend. There is a Prince Who Is Promised. I thought myself to be the one; I thought my son would bear the sword Lightbringer; but Elia will have no more sons."

 

He might as well be speaking High Valyrian. What they say about Targaryens seems to be true. "You have a son," she reminds him.

 

"The dragon must have three heads," Rhaegar says, softly, and his eyes meet hers; she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but whatever’s going through his mind, it shines through his violet eyes and makes her want to sink to her knees and stay with him. "I have known my entire life that I was meant for something great, Lyanna. Not the Iron Throne, not tourneys, something far greater. The Prince will save us all, in the end."

 

"What prince?" she asks softly, and wills herself to stand strong, unmoved. "Your – Aegon?"

 

"We were meant for each other," the prince says, and presses a kiss to her hands. "I can explain, if you'll let me."

 

Lyanna’s mouth is dry. She swallows hard. "I’m betrothed to –"

 

"You’ve known you were meant for something greater. I could see it in your eyes, the last time I saw you before this tree." She exhales, grasping his hands, and Rhaegar immediately presses her. "Tell me. What do you feel, my lady? Am I wrong, have you always known you would be a lady of a castle in the Stormlands? Or have you longed for something else?"

 

She has to say something, or he’ll suspect the truth. "I might have been a lady in the Riverlands, my prince."

 

"I was meant to find you here," he says steadily. "I was meant to see your face, and crown you my queen. I will not force you, my lady. Just know that I have loved you since the moment you lifted that helm from your head, and accept me if you are willing."

 

"You don’t love me." The words are bitter on her tongue. "You want to bed me. Those are different things, my prince."

 

"There are ways to bed a woman," Rhaegar says, with a hint of a smile. "Crowning her the Queen of Love and Beauty while your wife watches is not one of them."

 

Lyanna bites the corner of her mouth so as not to smile. "It seems to have worked for you thus far."

 

He drops his head and clutches her hands. "My lady, I am yours to command," he says simply.

 

She wishes she had the strength to be all ice and snow, a cold lady of the North, but it’s as though she’s in her dreams, bathed in flame. She forces out a breath and makes a sound that’s half- laugh, half-sob, then drops to her knees and presses a hand to his face.

 

Rhaegar looks up at her, plainly entranced, and she whispers. "I dream of fire, my prince. I dream of climbing a red mountain on fire, night after night, and I always hate to wake."

 

"Fire cannot kill a dragon, Lyanna," he says, and touches her, gingerly, as though she’s a ghost that might disappear with the slightest doubt. But she’s there with him, despite everything keeping them apart, and she couldn’t leave if she wanted to.

 

He kisses her, and speaks just as fervently about his own dreams in intense whispers: all of the books he’s read, how he has always waited for a sign that he was meant for something greater, and that she is that sign. He tells her of his father’s growing madness, his fears that his family will be overthrown; he tells her of Elia’s growing weakness, the illness that will eventually take the mother of his children from him; he tells Lyanna that one day, she will be Queen.

 

Crowns mean nothing to her, whether they’re made of flowers or gold. He understands. The world may burn down around them, but she is as the gods made her. She is freer than hawks or horses; she’ll be a queen, and bring the Seven Kingdoms through cleansing fire to new peace. Though the cinders burn beneath her feet, her path is clear.


End file.
